


The Immortal Swordsman

by Nehasy



Category: Tenkuu no Escaflowne | The Vision of Escaflowne
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 21:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15590820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehasy/pseuds/Nehasy
Summary: All lives are tied together and the actions of the past ripple forward to effect the future.





	The Immortal Swordsman

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Pic n' Fic for our Yearly Esca challenge. It was in response to the drawing done by Labeckinator entitled "A Meeting of Swordsmen". Check it out, her art is amazing! This was supposed to be a one part fic but I sort of messed up and began writing in the wrong sequence so I have a bonus bit to add to this at a later date. YAY bonus screw ups!
> 
> This is considered to be part of my Dragons Universe and yes, if the dialogue at the end sounds familiar I did lift if off of the show. Bad me, but it's a pretty pivotal moment for Van so I didn't want to screw with it.
> 
> Enjoy!

“This is taking too long!”  The blond youth snarled, kicking at a nearby rock in frustration.  “I already know how to fight!  You’re just wasting my time!” 

               Unimpressed, the hulking warrior sitting by the fire continued to ignore his tantrum, choosing instead to continue wrapping the thin coil of untanned leather along the grip of his blade.   The previous wrap had grown worn and the oil from his hands had begun to degrade the leather.  One’s weapon was only worth the level of care one put into it, and Balgus cared a great deal about his weapons.

               It was a time-consuming process which required delicate focus in order to keep each coil and knot even, creating a balanced grip which would be comfortable in his hands.  This left him with little time or inclination to indulge in the adolescent’s dramatic outbursts, especially when they were as common as the leaves on the surrounding trees.

               “Are you even listening to me?!”   The youth continued, glaring at the man furiously.  When no answer was forthcoming, he reached down, picking up the first thing he touched, in this case, a fist sized rock.  Spitting out a rather unflattering curse, he threw the stone at the man’s head.

               Before he could even react, he found himself flat on his back, the giant man pinning him to the unyielding ground and glaring at him through that single steel grey eye.  The chill edge of the man’s sword pressed against his throat in warning, stopping just on the edge of drawing blood.

               “I will reply to you when you say something worthy of it.”  Balgus growled ominously.

               “You promised that you’d teach me to be a great swordsman!”  The youth spat out, his voice ringing with righteous wrath as he glared up unflinchingly at the heavily scarred face of the aging warrior.  “You’ve taught me nothing!  I should have killed you when I had the chance!”

               “If you continue to burn your bridges, you’ll soon find that you’ve no way to cross the river.”  The swordsman grumbled, slowly pulling his sword away from that pale Asturian throat though he never once looked away from those flashing azure eyes.

               There was so much anger within their depths, so much fire.  Balgus couldn’t help but remember another student he’d once had.  If Folken had possessed such fire, perhaps he’d have survived his doomed hunt.  If he’d shaped the spirit of that gentle boy rather than simply focussing on technique, perhaps he’d still be within the royal court of Fanelia, honouring the promise of his dearest friend Goau, rather than drowning his sorrow with aimless wandering.

               Looking into those eyes, seeing that wild spirit filled with nothing but raw pain, the swordsman knew that it was fate which had caused their paths to cross.  Here they were, two lost souls meeting on a desolate path, each with the power to heal the other, if only he could get the damn boy to listen.

               “There is skill in your arm, to that I will agree.”  His deep voice was little more than a grumble, the Fanelian accent which he had developed over the years of life in the far western country across the Trade Sea sounded harsh even though he was speaking Asturian.  “However, your heart knows nothing but anger and vengeance.  If left unchecked, it will hollow you out, leaving nothing but an empty shell racing towards your own death.”

               “I don’t care!”  The youth screamed, his slender hands balling into fists.  “I have nothing but my anger!  It’s the only thing the world can’t take from me and it makes me strong!”

               “Strong men do not throw rocks at allies when their backs are turned.  Strong men do not attack innocent travellers on the road.  Strong men do not rant and rave like children.”  Balgus scoffed, taking a moment to ensure that his new knots had held properly before sheathing his sword, turning his back to the raging boy.

               “You stand at a crossroad boy.  You have the potential to be a great warrior, one of the greatest, but if you allow your heart to grow tainted by this anger, it will eat away at you.  Even if your sword cuts down enough enemies to finally return your sister to you, you will no longer be the brother she remembers and loves.  You will be no better than those who took her.  A man’s strength isn’t in his arm or the sharpness of his sword. It is in his heart and his soul.  Strength and courage come from the willingness to defend those who cannot, rather than in seeking out violence.

               “In your quest to be the hero, do not become the demon.”   One would think that he’d slapped the boy, the shock on his young face was so absolute.  Large blue eyes grew even larger, the hard wall within them showing its brittle core and shattering beneath the weight of his words.

               For a long moment, the two warriors stood there facing each other in silence before it was broken by a softly spoken word.

               “How?”  How did he not become a demon over the course of his quest?  How did he become the man he hoped to be in time to save his sister?  How could Balgus save him from the abyss yawning at his feet?  There were half a hundred unspoken questions behind that single word and it broke the old swordsman’s heart to hear them.

               If he could have blended this fierce and brilliant youth with the doomed prince Folken, he would have beheld the most perfect warrior Gaea had ever seen.  While both had been wonderfully skilled with the blade, this youth had an indomitable heart.  All it was lacking was tempering which patience and understanding would bring.  A quality the young prince had had in spades.

               “Come to the fire and sit with me.”  He smiled gently over his shoulder at the boy.  “The seeds of greatness are already within your heart, they simply require watering.”

               Slowly, almost reluctantly, the youth edged forward, joining him within the circle of the fire’s glow.  Suspicion still darkened his eyes, but in their depths, something far greater had been kindled.  Hope. 

               It would grow and spread in time, suffusing his being and guiding him forward along the path of greatness, Balgus knew this deep in his heart and it gave him a deep sense of comfort.  Perhaps all was not lost for Gaea. 

               Once he taught this young one, he would return to Fanelia and guide the remaining young prince so that he might survive where his brother had failed.  In aiding this lonely and lost boy, perhaps he could finally put his own demons to rest.

               Many saw swords as being the greatest weapons on Gaea, but in truth, they were nothing more than tools.  The great wars were not won solely by weapons, nor the hands which wielded them.  They were won by hearts.  Those few men and women who could master both would be undefeatable.

 

 

               Everything was burning, even the air itself seared his lungs as he drew in each breath and his eyes were seared by the heat as he forced himself to look around at the ruins of his home, the broken bodies of his men.  It was all gone, lost to a mad child and a power-hungry country.  Words spoken so long ago echoed across his heart as he struggled not to hear the fading screams of the dying.  Empty souls consumed by anger, turning men into demons.

               The part of his mind which never stopped analyzing and questioning the world around him began to wonder just what it was which had hollowed out the pale warrior Dilandau, leaving him nothing but an empty vicious thing.  Did he feel that all this senseless death would make him whole? 

At first glance, Allen had been able to feel the bloodlust consuming the boy and knew that once long ago, he had been little better.  Had Balgus not saved him from his own inner pain and turmoil, he might have walked a similar path.  It was galling to admit, even if it was only to himself, but he refused to deny it.  One could not rise above the weakness in one’s soul if they didn’t admit such a weakness existed.

               Speaking of young men consumed by anger, the knight turned his head as he caught sight of a dark-skinned youth running through the carnage, his sword drawn as if it could somehow aid him against the invisible giants which had torn through the forts melef units like paper.  Van. 

               The boy was an echo from the past, a mirror held up to Allen, reminding him of what he’d once been.  A bleeding soul screaming for vengeance, determined to attack any and all enemies head on, heedless of risk or consequence. 

               Had Dilandau and his men recognized the young king?  What had given them away?  Had it even mattered by that point?  There was no purpose to dwelling on such things, at this moment, they were of little consequence.

Much like the old master swordsman who’d taught him so long ago, Allen could see the crossroads ahead for himself and the boy.  He could sit back and do nothing while Van sought his own death in the name of revenge, as the Fanelian dynasty burned with the ashes of their country, or he could step in and guide the tortured youth, creating something so much greater than before.

               “Allen!”  The boy yelled, coming to a stop near the foot of Sherazade.  “Where’s Escaflowne?”  It was disheartening that his first thought was for his armour rather than to ask after the welfare of his companions, though hardly surprising. 

               “Don’t worry.”  The knight replied, already knowing that his words would bring the enraged king no comfort.  “It’s been loaded onto the Crusade.”  With his precious weapon out of reach, perhaps the king would listen to reason rather than racing off into a battle he couldn’t win.  Once more, Allen praised his foresight in ordering the ancient guymelef to be tucked away.  As expected, the confusion which his words caused overpowered that all consuming anger for a few precious moments.

               “The castle has fallen.”  It hurt to admit, but Castillo was just a building which could always be rebuilt with a little work.  The lives already lost were much more precious and Allen would not sit back while more were wasted on a losing battle.  “We’re withdrawing.”

               Those few seconds of confusion were lost at his words and contempt filled Van’s eyes.

               “You’re running?”  He spat angrily, gesturing towards the broken bodies of Allen’s men.  There were so many, and the number was likely growing with every second they wasted arguing.  “After what they did to your men?”

               The loss of those lives hurt, but Allen had long ago grown used to the pain.  He’d lost everything which had ever mattered to him repeatedly until he’d been left but nothing aside from his duty and his honour.  As much as he wanted to fight against this atrocity, vengeance was not his priority.

               “Coward!”  Raising his sword, the king screamed up at the knight, the rage burning in his eyes hot enough to almost overpower the surrounding inferno.  “You call yourself a knight?!”  The words stung, but little else.  He’d been called far worse after all by his peers at court.  “I’ll never turn my back to my enemy and run away!  I’ll make them pay for what they did to the people of Fanelia!  I’ll fight to the death!”  He held up his sword, defiantly displaying the royal crest emblazoned on the cross guard, as if Allen had any doubt as to the boy’s noble lineage.

               It was amazing how history repeated itself and Allen found himself wondering if Balgus was somewhere out there amongst the flames watching them, his spirit chuckling softly at finding the proud knight now standing in his shoes.  How had he ever been so blind to the subtleties of the world?  Everything was so simple for this young king in his grief.  A black and white reality etched out of his grief, one which allowed for no compromise no matter how dire the odds.

               There was no doubt as to how this would end.  If he allowed Van to race forward into battle, he’d be slaughtered in seconds… if he was lucky.  Somehow, he doubted that Dilandau would be quite so merciful.  Not after being lied to so boldly.  He’d want to make an example of the king, even if only to soothe his own bruised ego.

               “There’s nothing brave about choosing rashly to die!”  Allen shot back over the roar of the flames and choking smoke. 

               The look of shock on the king’s face warned that few had ever stood their ground or argued against him so bluntly and the knight pressed his advantage relentlessly.  While he did soften his voice, his words were still placed with skilled precision, finding the chinks in the young teen’s fragile armour as Balgus had with him so long ago.

               “Van, you’re Fanelia’s king.”  He explained.  “As long as she has a king and a people, Fanelia has a future.  Bearing indignities such as this is true courage.”  It would have been so easy all those years ago to continue his violent course, to ride the power of his anger and carve his way to his sister’s side, but it would have gained him nothing.  In waiting, in training and ensuring that when the time and opportunity finally came, he’d emerge victorious, Allen had learned true courage.  Now he could only pray to Jeture that Van had that same strength in his heart.

               “A warrior gives his life so that other’s might live.  Never forget that.”  This isn’t about pride, he continued silently, willing the king to understand his silence.  This is about lives, about the future.  They each had their duties to others which meant more than themselves and neither could afford to throw it away in the name of empty dramatics.

               The young king lowered his sword, looking stricken over the idea of running a second time while those around him payed the ultimate price.  Allen knew well the feeling of powerlessness and impotence in the face of such an insurmountable enemy.  How he desperately wanted to strike out, no matter how pointlessly, just to feel some sense of control.  He’d lived that way for years before he’d learned the futility of it.  Van didn’t have years to learn this.  He would either understand now or die.

               With careful movements, Allen extended Sherazade’s hand to the ground, inviting Van to step onto it and waited for the young monarch to make his choice.  Around them, the fires continued to rage, singing the edges of the guymelef’s cloak and heating the metal to a rather uncomfortable degree.  It was growing too dangerous to dally here much longer. Soon the metal would begin to cook him, that was if the smoke didn’t burn out his lungs first.

               It was with no small amount of relief that Allen saw the king step onto the outstretched hand and he wasted no time in lifting it up to a more secure position, looking the broken youth in the eye.

               “I’ll never hand you or Escaflowne over to Zaibach.”  He vowed solemnly, meaning it with every ounce of honour he had in his soul.  “You have the word of Allen Schezar.”  With that, he closed the visor with a sharp snap, ensuring that the king couldn’t argue any further.

               He had no idea if Van would continue to accept his guidance once this emergency was over, but he felt that he owed it to Balgus to do his best.  The spirit of the great man hovered around this young king and it shone in his every movement.  He’d given his life to see this lost and broken boy survive, just as his past actions had likely saved Allen’s own life.  He could do no less to honour the spirit of his teacher.

               They say that the master lives on in the student, that in teaching, one leaves a portion of themselves in those they’ve trained.  In saving Allen, who in turn saved Van, Balgus, one of the greatest master swordsmen of Gaea would be immortal.         

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed the parallels between Balgus and Allen vs Allen and Van in the show as there really was a strong sense of mentor-ship being passed down as well as how powerful an influence Balgus had had over both their lives. Both young men had lost so much and were filled with so much hate, but in helping another, they still managed to heal themselves... even if they did sort of drive each other nuts.
> 
> I love the complex relationships in this series and was so happy to have a chance to explore one of the most fascinating ones in the series with this story. Thanks Labeckinator!


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